


Playing With Fire

by girloficeandfire



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:32:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girloficeandfire/pseuds/girloficeandfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Futurefic one-shot in response to a prompt: "Bran is getting married and Sansa is getting drunk." Includes reactions from some of Bran's wedding guests for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing With Fire

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stefichan](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stefichan).



> DISCLAIMER: Characters etc. belong to George RR Martin. No copyright infringement intended, I just want to have some fun with his wonderful creations :)

**BRAN**  
 _She's no Meera_ , thought Bran, _but she agreed to have me though I'm a cripple_. He smiled at his new wife and she winked at him, wiggling her blonde eyebrows, so mismatched with her green-dyed hair. Though she was a good five years his senior, Wylla had not balked at the match. He supposed that him being a grown man of sixteen now helped things and he refused to think about the fact that it was quite a step up for a Manderly to marry into the eight thousand year old Stark line.

Suddenly there was a crash and Bran looked up to see that Arya was standing, her chair on the floor. She rarely came to Winterfell these days, and when she did she was brooding and angry and would soon leave on another of her "missions". He could see that she was glaring down at Sansa but his eldest sister's face was blocked from his view. Bran flushed with embarrassment for a moment, but then Wylla patted his hand and smiled at him. "Sisters," she explained with a nod toward Arya and Sansa. He felt better, then.

 

**WYLLA**  
Such a sweet boy, this Bran. _Her_ Bran. He was broken, sometimes distant, but good. Wylla had seen so much of bad men - those damn Freys skulking about her father's keep all those years ago - so when they had offered her this match she gladly accepted. Better a kind, broken husband than a mean, whole one. Still, she hadn't expected to share Winterfell with Lady Sansa and her sworn shields - that brute of a woman and that horribly disfigured dog. Sansa herself was trouble enough, in her cups more often than not nowadays. She acted happy that Bran was lord of Winterfell now, to be sure, but whether she meant everything she said...that remained to be seen. At least Arya was not constantly around - Sansa was one thing, Arya quite another. A dangerous girl to say the least.

When Arya's chair crashed to the floor and she said something in a low, angry voice to Sansa, Wylla could see Bran's distress and tried to calm him with a pat and a word. Sisters fought like cats and dogs - she and Wynafryd certainly had. But that didn't mean it was right of Arya and Sansa to be at each other's throats at their brother's wedding.

 

**BRIENNE**  
Lady Sansa had been drinking before the ceremony - Brienne could smell the wine on her breath, though her lady tried to hide it. The feast was another matter and Sansa's cup was constantly being refilled. That Hound is a bad influence on her, Brienne thought for the thousandth time. Though Sandor Clegane had gave up drinking for a time, lately the two of them had been sharing wine and ale and gods knew what else at all hours of the day. Sansa giggled an awful lot when she was with the Hound, but Brienne was sure it had to be the drink that made her do so.

However it was not Brienne's place to judge her lady; it was her place to protect her. When Arya leapt up from her chair, her hand over a dagger that hung from her belt, Brienne sighed and stepped forward to see what the problem was.

 

**ALYS**  
Gods, they were at it again. Alys glanced at her husband and rolled her eyes, and for a brief second his mouth cracked into a smile. Though Sigorn did not often smile, he was a strong, wild man and she loved him for saving her from her awful cousin Cregan. He and Bran had become something like friends, sharing their tales of the land beyond the Wall. Alys had even been surprised to hear that Lady Sansa approved of her marriage - Sansa had always seemed more of a southron lady than a woman of the North.

_Women of the North can handle their wine, though, and Sansa cannot_ , Alys thought with a grin. She watched Sansa pout petulantly as her ugly wench of a knightess talked Arya down and the younger Stark girl went stomping from the hall. Through it all, Sansa's other sworn shield - the dog, they sometimes called him, though never to Sansa's face - stood silent and impassive against the wall behind his lady. _Such a strange little trio_.

 

**ARYA**  
She had not been quite sure during her last few visits to Winterfell. She never stayed long enough to be sure. But now she was. It was in the way they looked at each other, though they tried to hide it. It was in the way Sansa waited for him at the end of his day as Winterfell's master-at-arms, the way she would insist that he share her wine cup at meals when she thought no one was looking. And the wine cup was far too often in Sansa's hand, nowadays.

It was the slightly less than surreptitious glances over her shoulder at the feast that gave Sansa away now, though, and Arya could no longer keep her mouth shut. "I cannot believe you, Sansa. _Him_?" she whispered, her voice hoarse with anger. Sansa turned to Arya, regarding her with heavy-lidded eyes that seemed to glow with drunkenness.

"Why Arya, whatever do you mean?" she said with a wicked smile. Arya glanced back at the Hound; she could not help it. He was looking at the two of them, his gaze heavy, pensive. _Seven hells. He knows that I know_.

"Never mind. For now. You should watch your wine intake, _sister_."

"Oh Arya, who are you to tell me what to do? Do not think that I do not know what you are. You of all people should not presume to judge me."

In a moment Arya had stood, her chair thrown back onto the floor and her hand on her dagger - but then Sansa's wench was at her side and she could feel the Hound's eyes boring into her and she threw up her hands in frustration before stalking from the hall. She did not understand this new Winterfell.

She did not belong here. Not anymore.

 

**SANSA**  
She had been very, very bad these past months.

When Brienne and Sandor had arrived in the Vale and whisked her away it had been like magic, at first. But then the road to the North had been long, hard, dangerous...and in the end, when they arrived at Winterfell after months of traveling and hiding with one sympathetic lord after another, Bran had been alive and Winterfell was not hers after all. Though even that was a blessing in disguise, for once Daenerys had the throne and Tyrion found out that his young maiden bride was not heir to a keep after all, he hied off to Casterly Rock and gave her the annulment for which she had long wished.

And Sansa decided that until she could marry whomever she wanted, she would not marry at all. Yet being an old maid did not quite appeal to her, and once Brienne had let her guard down it had not been difficult at all to convince Sandor to have her.

For the first time in her life Sansa was having fun. Though Brienne and many others tsk'ed at her for the drinking, she did not quite see what the problem was...also, it was funny that they were so focused on the wine that they had no idea about her and Sandor. _Silly birds_ , she thought, and giggled. But Bran's betrothal and subsequent wedding were another matter entirely and suddenly she found herself wondering why she could not marry Sandor. Lord of Winterfell or not, her brother was still a cripple and yet Wylla seemed happy enough to marry him...and apparently that was all that mattered to anyone else. She knew it was not quite the same, but still...she was a grown woman now, over 20, getting older every day, yet she remained unmarried while her 16-year-old brother wed a girl nearly her own age.

So Sansa drank that day. She had wine brought to her room before the ceremony and held out her cup to be refilled as often as possible at the feast. If only Arya would keep her mouth shut...

 

**SANDOR**  
He had been watching her all evening and could see that tonight was going to be a long one. Though Bran and his emerald-haired wife should have been the center of attention, Sansa's constant calls for refills and shouts for songs of courtly love were drawing too much attention. The Northern wedding guests had been looking askance at her for some time now, while the few southron lords and ladies present did what they did best and politely averted their eyes. Sandor watched them all, but especially the wolf girl - and when Arya lurched to her feet, hand on her dagger, he was glad that Brienne reached the sisters first. As soon as Arya had left the hall, the wench was at his side. "Take the Lady Sansa to her chambers, Clegane. She has had quite enough for one evening."

"You do it," he growled, knowing she would expect him to protest. Brienne heaved a sigh.

"I feel you are better equipped to deal with Arya should she come calling at Sansa's door tonight."

Sandor nodded curtly and moved to kneel next to Sansa's chair. "I think it's time you get some rest, my lady."

Sansa's smile was arch. "If you will take me to bed, my lord."

He raised an eyebrow at her as he stood, holding his arm out for her to take. "Come, Lady Sansa." She placed her hand on his forearm and stood as well, swaying a bit too perceptibly.

"As you command, Ser Clegane," she replied, and thanks to her tone not one guest within hearing distance missed her meaning.

 

**ALYS**  
Was Lady Sansa not so much of a lady, after all? _No wonder my marriage to a wildling amused her so much..._

_  
_

**BRIENNE**  
How blind could she possibly be? How long had this been going on? She suddenly remembered a hundred surreptitious glances between them, comments that held double meanings, their constant sharing of wine cups at meals... _Some guardian I am._

_  
_

**WYLLA**  
It was about time someone removed Lady Sansa from the hall, though it seemed that Brienne would have been the more proper candidate for the task. Surely Sansa would not have thought to say something so out of character had the wench been helping her out of her seat...

 

**BRAN**  
Was Sansa completely mad? To be making such bawdy comments in front of hundreds of lords and ladies...he did not relish the thought of having to discuss this with her the next day. Even less so having to upbraid his master-at-arms for such familiarity.

 

**SANSA**  
Before they were even through the doors of the hall she tried to twine her fingers between his, but Sandor rigidly held her off until they were out of sight from the wedding guests. "What were you thinking?" he finally rasped. "Do you want them all to know?"

"Yes!" she cried breathlessly. "Are you not tired of hiding? If Bran can marry, why can't I? I am no longer Lady of Winterfell and you are all I want, Sandor." She reached up and clasped her hand around the back of his neck, pulling him in for a passionate kiss, leaning against him until his back was pressed into the wall. She knew that he could push her away at any moment, but he did not do so and she took it as a good sign. "Take me to my chambers as you promised Brienne, Ser," she said when she finally pulled away from the kiss.

"I cannot stay with you, Sansa, you know that."

"I know nothing of the sort. No one will find out - they are all drinking and making merry. You and I are the least of their concerns."

"I doubt that after your little performance in there," Sandor reminded her. She waved him off and sauntered down the hall, glancing back over her shoulder to beckon him with her eyes.

 

**SANDOR**  
She was acting the stupid little bird again, but when she kissed him like that, leaned into him, invited him to spend the night with her...he could not refuse. _She knows as much too, I'd wager_ , he thought, smiling grimly to himself as he followed her to her bed chamber.

Usually their times together were brief, stolen moments in the godswood or his quarters or even the stables. The idea of being in Sansa's chambers for an entire night was not one he could lightly dismiss and he found himself hurrying to catch up with her, to scoop her into his arms and kiss her again, thankful that the other members of the household were in the hall and would be there for most of the night to celebrate Bran's wedding. When he pushed her mouth open with his tongue she bit down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, and he pulled away to glare at her...but then she gave him that wicked smile again and licked the blood from his mouth like the wolf she was. He chuckled darkly and shoved open the door to her chambers, where a fire was flickering merrily in the hearth and a flagon of wine was waiting on the table.

He was just distracted enough that he did not see Arya until Sansa gasped and cried, "What are you _doing_ in here?"

 

**ARYA**  
When she had first left the hall she was not sure where she would go, but then she realized that sooner or later Sansa would come to bed and when she did Arya wanted to be waiting for her. The thought that Sandor may come with her sister had crossed Arya's mind, but she had dismissed it, thinking that not even Sansa could be that drunk or that silly.

She was wrong.

When Sandor pushed open the door Arya was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sansa saw her first, but once she gasped and cried out Sandor's eyes immediately found her own again. "Why sister," Arya said with feigned sweetness, "I am here to protect your honor, of course."

"My honor is none of your business," Sansa shrugged.

"It is if it involves him!" Arya heard herself say, pointing to the Hound. "Do you want to know what he said to me, Sansa? Do you? My guess is that you do not, but I'm going to tell you anyway. After he kidnapped me and the Red Wedding occurred, he did not know where to take me, so he _kept_ me. Oh, do not worry, he did not rape me. No, he was too busy pining after you. But it's not as romantic as you would think. He felt bad for watching Joffrey's other men beat you, felt bad about some song he took from you - whatever that means - but he did not seem to feel bad that he thought to rape you. In fact, he regretted not doing it. 'I meant to take her too. I should have. I should have fucked her bloody and ripped her heart out.' That's what he said, sister. And I've never forgotten it. So. Do you still want to let him have you?"

Sansa's rage shocked her. It was quiet, to be sure, but the look on her face was as frightening as any the Hound had ever tossed in Arya's direction. "Get out," Sansa hissed. Arya stood her ground for a long moment, until the Hound growled, "Best do as your sister says, little wolf."

"You are both insane," Arya snapped as she left them, slamming the door behind her.

 

**SANSA**  
Her little sister was going to be the death of her. Once Arya was gone Sansa allowed herself a long pull from the flagon of wine before turning to Sandor, who stood stiffly and would not look her in the eye. She shoved the flagon toward him. "Drink. You look as if you need it." He obeyed, but still avoided her gaze. "Was that true, what Arya said?"

He did not answer but that only made it obvious that Arya was speaking the truth. However, Sansa was far from upset over a rude comment Sandor had made while he lay feverish and dying. And she was still going to tease him mercilessly about it. Sansa stepped forward and took the flagon away, setting it back on the table. She then reached up and grabbed a chunk of Sandor's hair, pulling his face down toward hers. "Do you still want to fuck me bloody and tear my heart out?" she whispered, pressing herself against him. She could feel his heart thudding in his chest and it aroused her to know that he was not quite sure what to say or do. "Do you regret not taking me? Truly?"

"You know that I do," he rasped. "And I wouldn't have ripped your heart out."

"No," she agreed, "I think not. That part was a lie. But the rest of it was true. Now...I can't quite recreate that night. I've no wildfire, you're not a bloody mess, and the window is in the wrong place anyway...but let's play pretend, shall we? You can wait for me in my bed and put a dagger to my throat and I'll sing for you...only this time you will take me as you wanted to all those years ago."

 

**SANDOR**  
 _She must be japing_ , Sandor thought incredulously. Though...he had seen her drunk before, but not quite _this_ drunk...and she was _asking_ him to do it..."Are you certain about this?" he forced himself to ask. Sansa pouted her lips and pulled away from him.

"Yes. You wanted to...what was it again?...'fuck me bloody'? Fine then. But in return you'll need to play my game."

"A dagger to your throat, girl? That's not much of a game."

"Then you shouldn't have done it the night of the Blackwater, now should you? Get on the bed."

Sandor almost balked at her ordering him around, but at the same time he liked the fire in her eyes and the wine on her breath and thought _If this is what she wants..._ He shrugged and lay down, trying to remember the position in which he had passed out drunk on her bed the night of the battle. Sansa certainly played her part well - she even left the room for a few moments before hurrying back in and barring the door behind her, rushing to the window and ripping back the drapes, backing up onto the bed and whimpering "Lady" as she lay down next to him.

He reached out and grabbed her wrist, clamped his other hand over her mouth. "Little bird. I knew you'd come. If you scream I'll kill you. Believe that." He removed his hand from over her mouth and grabbed the flagon of wine, taking a drink. And then it was easy - their entire conversation came back to him; Sansa even closed her eyes when he pulled her close and promised to keep her safe. For a moment he hoped she would put a stop to their little game before he had to put his dagger to her throat, but no...he pressed the tip of it against her soft white skin and she sang for him, the Mother's song again, only her voice was stronger and this time he didn't cry and when she was finished he covered her mouth with his and laid her back on the bed, using the dagger to slice open her dress as he'd wanted to do all those years ago in her chamber in Maegor's Holdfast.

 

**SANSA**

The feel of the cold metal tip of the dagger at her throat brought back a rush of memories, but not just of the night of the battle. She recalled the falsely remembered kiss, and how time and again throughout the years she had returned to that dreamt-up memory whenever her world closed in around her, threatening to suffocate her.

Sansa was light-headed with wine and her entire body felt hot, inside and out. That, however, was not just the drink. She felt delightfully wicked, singing the mother's song with a voice thick with wine and a mind focused on the fact that she could feel Sandor's stiff manhood pressing into her thigh as he leaned over her. When her song ended and he kissed her, his mouth hot and rough on hers, his tongue sliding between her lips, there was a moment when it ached to know that he had not done this all those years ago. He pressed her back into the bed and his dagger cut through her gown, the wisp of cold steel on skin raising goose pimples all over her body. Unbidden, she arched toward him just as the knife reached her belly and cried out when it penetrated her skin. Sandor swore loudly and almost broke the moment, but Sansa put her hand on his shoulder and looked him in the eye to show him that she was fine.

And then something in him seemed to break. He tossed the dagger aside and fairly tore her gown off of her before lowering himself and gently licking away the blood that had seeped from the little gash on her stomach. Sandor grasped her left hip with his right hand; his other hand reached to tease her nipple as he moved lower still, his tongue grazing her pelvic bone and down to the inside of her thigh. She sighed as her legs opened automatically, and the feel of his rough scarred skin and lips and soft warm tongue on her woman's place made her thrust toward him. She placed her hands over his but in a moment he had grabbed them and his head was gone from between her legs and he was hovering over her, holding her arms above her in an iron grip as he reached his free hand down to unlace and pull off his breeches, his eyes on hers the entire time, and now she was not sure if she was dizzy with wine – or with desire.

 

**SANDOR**

When he kissed Sansa's cunt she was already wet, and he could not help but smile and think _This is not how it would have gone that night_. But it wasn't until she grasped at his hands that he knew he had to turn the tide or lose the game completely. He locked her arms over her head as he removed his breeches and without hesitation he thrust into her, causing her to cry out. Sandor bent over her and growled into her ear, "Good…but I think little Sansa would have cried in pain, not pleasure. And she would have begged me to stop."

Sansa's smile was fleeting and the look of terror on her face obviously fake, but when she squealed, "Please, ser, please, you're _hurting_ me," Sandor almost believed that she was telling the truth. He thrust into her again, tightening his grip on her wrists.

"I am no _ser_ ," he snarled. He let go of her arms and locked his hands around her perfect tiny waist, rolling onto his back so that he was under her and holding her over his cock. Sansa beat weakly at his chest with her tiny fists, but her head was tilted back and her eyes closed, her mouth hanging open as she breathed in ragged gasps. "Move," he ordered, and when she began riding him it was tentative, almost like it could have been had this truly happened that night so long ago. He reached up and pinched her nipple, holding it between vice-like fingers until she began rocking faster. Sandor pressed up into her and groaned, knowing that he would not last much longer at this rate.

And then she slapped him across his unscarred cheek, slapped him with all of her might, and without thinking he grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head toward his. "What was that for?"

Sansa was breathless, her eyes bright. "I was a _maid_ , dog. What have you _done_ to me?"

And Sandor laughed.

 

**SANSA**

Striking Sandor had been a spur-of-the-moment idea, and when he chuckled at her she broke, pressing her mouth to his as her body spasmed in pleasure. She could taste the wine on her tongue mingling with the wine on his and he drove into her, bringing her to her peak again and again and again. The waves of pleasure washed over her and she felt him contract inside of her. Sandor moved to pull away and spill his seed amongst the sheets as he usually did, but this time she stopped him, clutching his head and murmuring, "Stay in me," against his lips.

" _Gods!_ " he exclaimed in response, and as he spilled inside of her she bit gently at his lip and shuddered one more time, a smaller sort of bliss that was nonetheless amazing in its own right. She draped herself across his chest and sighed, and both of them were silent for quite some time. Finally Sandor mumbled, "You should not have let me do that."

_Had I not drank so much, I wouldn't have,_ Sansa thought, but she knew better than to say as much out loud. "I do not care anymore. I would rather have your bastard than any other man's true born son. I would rather have your true born son than marry any other man."

Sandor touched his fingers to her chin and lifted it so that she would look at him. "What could the little bird mean?" he wondered.

"The little bird means that there should be another wedding soon, and bugger anyone who thinks otherwise. But also, she thinks you should stop calling her 'little bird' and start calling her 'little wife'," Sansa whispered fiercely.

He clutched her to him and kissed the top of her head and this time, he did not laugh.


End file.
